


Hearts And Flowers

by flawedamythyst



Series: Horse And Carriage [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Over the last few years, the marks of age had grown increasingly obvious on both of them, until John couldn't deny that they were old men.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts And Flowers

John squinted at the back of the seed packet, wishing he'd thought to bring his glasses. _Prefers a peaty soil_. No good, the soil around their cottage was all chalk. He put the packet back, and looked over the rest of the seed display, hoping for inspiration.

Sherlock shifted behind him and made an impatient sound. “The planting season will be over if you don't hurry up,” he said.

John had spent thirty years learning to ignore that tone of voice, so the words barely even registered. “How do you feel about runner beans?” he asked, picking up another packet. “We'd have to build something for them to climb up.” That might be fun. Last time he'd needed something for the garden – a cage to keep the birds off his strawberries - Sherlock had watched him mess about with a hammer and a few bits of wood for about ten minutes, then taken over completely. By the end, John had had the most complicated cage in the county. He'd found actual blueprints for it, buried under a stack of Beekeepers Quarterly on the explosion Sherlock called a desk.

There was another aggravated sigh. “I don't care.”

“You should,” said John, turning the packet over and squinting again. “You'll be stuck eating them for two or three weeks if I do grow them.” Last summer he'd made a slight miscalculation over the amount of courgettes he should plant, and they'd been nearly buried under the things. They'd given as many as they could away to neighbours, until even they'd begun to look a bit green at just the sight of a courgette.

“Runner beans are fine,” said Sherlock. “Anything you grow is fine.”

“Right,” said John, taking the packet with a few others he'd already decided on over to the till.

“Find everything all right, Doctor Watson?” asked the boy as he scanned through the purchases.

“Yes, thank you,” said John, giving him a warm smile. Now, how did he know him? Was he one of Hannah Jenkins' boys? “How's your mother?” he wagered.

The boy beamed at him. “Just fine, thanks,” he said. “Her hip's healing up well – the doctor said the operation couldn't have gone better.”

Ah, not Hannah Jenkins, then. John had seen her just last week, running after one of her grandchildren – not something you did with a dodgy hip. He tried to think who might have been due a hip operation, then gave it up as an impossible task. His memory just wasn't what it had been.

“Give her my best,” he said as he took his purchases.

“I will, Doctor Watson,” said the boy with a grin. “Thank you.”

John turned away and smiled at Sherlock. “All ready now,” he said.

Sherlock moved away from the seed rack where he had been hovering, and let out a melodramatic sigh. “Finally,” he said tetchily, but John knew it was just a front and that he was actually amused about something. No doubt he'd been able to tell that John had no idea who the boy's mother was.

John's guess was proved right as they left the shop, Sherlock's arm moving automatically to take John's good one. His head bent at the same time and he murmured, “Tracy Newton,” next to John's ear.

Ah, of course. Last time John had seen Tracy, she'd been propped up by a zimmerframe and scowling in a way that spoke of constant pain.

He gave Sherlock a grateful smile that Sherlock returned, his pique at the wait apparently forgotten.

Over the last few years, the marks of age had grown increasingly obvious on both of them, until John couldn't deny that they were old men. He secretly enjoyed it, relishing the chance to be an old buffer, even if Sherlock had aged in a more dignified way than he had.

Sherlock's hair was completely grey now, but still thick enough to make burying fingers in it a pleasure. John's own hair had receded at the same time as fading, giving him entirely too much forehead, all of it covered with deep lines. His shoulder wound had become increasingly troublesome, especially in bad weather, so that raising his arm even to shoulder level was often a chore. Today it was sending random shoots of pain down his arm, despite the bright sunshine, which made John wonder if there was going to be a thunderstorm later. He hoped so – for all he enjoyed referring to his 'old war wound', he wasn't ready to have it aching even in warm weather.

Sherlock had manage to escape the kind of major injury that came back to haunt you in your old age by some kind of incredible miracle, given the kinds of situations they'd ended up in more than once. His joints had started to stiffen though, and he'd developed something of a stoop, which he blamed entirely on John.

“I've spent thirty years bending down to talk to you, of course I've got a stoop now.”

John had refrained from pointing out that he'd actually spent far more time at his full height, looking down his nose at people.

Another pain ran through his shoulder, down into his chest this time, and John felt himself grimace. Sherlock shot him a concerned look, then took the bag off him.

“I think I can carry a couple of packets of seeds,” protested John.

“I'm sure you can,” said Sherlock. “I just wanted to add to them.” He pulled another packet out of his pocket and showed it to John. It was a packet of poppy seeds and even without his glasses, John could recognise the seal that meant the profits went to The Royal British Legion. “You never plant any flowers,” added Sherlock.

“You can't eat flowers,” John pointed out, but he was grinning as he said it. Despite the fact that it had been before John had known him – and these days, it was hard to remember that there had been such a time – Sherlock had never forgotten that John was a soldier as well as a doctor (and a detective's assistant, and a put-upon dogsbody, and a long-suffering husband). A thought suddenly struck him. “Hang on, when did you manage to pay for that without me noticing?”

“I didn't,” said Sherlock, putting the packet in the bag.

John stopped where he was, halting Sherlock's movement as well. “Sherlock,” he said in a frustrated voice. “You can't just _take_ -”

“Yes, I knew you'd say that,” Sherlock interrupted. “So I left the money on one of the shelves.”

John gaped at him. “I'm pretty sure shops don't appreciate that sort of thing,” he said eventually.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, who cares what they _appreciate_? I don't appreciate the way they hike the prices just because we can't be bothered to go all the way to the garden centre.”

“It's important to support local businesses,” said John, but he'd already lost that argument several times, so he left it at that.

Sherlock hmmphed and took his arm again. “Come on,” he said. “Let's have tea and a cake.”

They set off down the street again, towards the tea shop where John always swore he'd just have a cup of tea and save his ever-expanding waistline a bit of growth, but somehow always ended up being tempted by the array of fresh cream cakes. Oh well, one more wouldn't hurt. He was old, after all. He deserved a treat, and it wasn't as if he had to go chasing after criminals any more.

The pain in his shoulder began to build again and he rotated it, resting his hand on the socket for a moment.

“Perhaps you should have someone take a look at it?” said Sherlock in a diffident voice that meant he knew what John's reaction to that was going to be.

John scowled. “I am a doctor, you know,” he said. “I can look after it myself.”

“Of course,” agreed Sherlock. John glared at him, but the only reaction was a brief shift in Sherlock's gait that caused their shoulders to nudge together.

The pain shot back through John's shoulder, strongly enough to make his breath hitch, and he paused. What on earth was going on with the thing? Had he slept on it last night or something?

“John?” asked Sherlock, beginning to sound worried. “Are you sure that you can-”

A sharp burn of pain shot straight through John's chest, hard enough to make him stagger. Oh, god, it wasn't the shoulder. “Sherlock,” he gasped as the pain started to all come at once, driving him to his knees. Sherlock followed him down, clutching at his shoulders.

“John, what is it?” he asked frantically. “John, don't do this.”

“Sherlock,” managed John through gritted teeth as the edges of his vision dipped in and out of blackness. “I'm having a heart attack. You need to call an ambulance.” The pain clenched around his heart like a steel fist and he gasped, losing track of everything else, everything but the burn of Sherlock's eyes locked on his. “Now,” he added. “Sherlock-”

Sherlock pulled away, fumbling in his pocket for his phone, and John started to hope, desperately, that the ambulance would be in time. He wasn't ready to go yet, he still had so much he wanted to do. He wanted to grow runner beans and force Sherlock to eat them, and find out what insane experiment he was going to run on the honey this year and- The pain surged through him, and everything started to go black.

 _Please God, let me live,_ he thought desperately as it all disappeared.

 

****

 

He did live. He came to in the hospital, feeling as if he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse. Sherlock was by his side, as he had been every time John had come to in a hospital since they'd been married, barring one or two incidents when he'd been restricted to his own hospital bed, on another ward. He'd usually found some way of escaping the nurses and finding his way to John's bed even then.

The look on his face was different from those occasions, though. He always had his version of a 'worried' face on when John first woke up, which morphed into 'irritated that you've let yourself get injured again' as soon as he was aware he was being watched. Today, his face was a curious, blank expression, and he was staring down at their joined hands. John twitched his fingers to show he was awake, and Sherlock looked up at him, then let out a long breath.

“John,” he said.

John managed a grimace in response, but hurt too much for more than that. He seemed to be on some kind of drug, but it was barely enough to do more than layer over the top of the pain.

Sherlock's hand clenched around John's, but he didn't say anything more. Instead, he just looked at John until John stopped blinking at him and fell asleep.

The doctor spoke to them the next day, talking about medication and changes to John's lifestyle and diet, and all the other things that would mean he'd be fine, if he was just a bit careful. It was a relief, even if John had suspected it from how he'd woken up. These days, if you woke up from the first heart attack, the second was unlikely unless you were particularly careless, or some other factor was involved.

Sherlock sat in silence throughout the whole conversation, the look on his face unchanged from when John had first woken, and his hand still tightly clasped with John's.

After the doctor had gone, there was silence for a few minutes as John ran through the things he would have to change, and began to mourn all the cakes he would have to forego.

“I thought you were going to die,” said Sherlock eventually, in a very low voice.

John squeezed his fingers. “We've both thought that before,” he pointed out.

“It's not meant to happen any more!” exclaimed Sherlock. “It was one of the best things about retiring, that we wouldn't have to go through that again! And it wasn't even something I could do anything about – how am I meant to stop your own body from trying to kill you?”

“Sherlock,” said John, wishing he could sit up and hug the man, or at least do more than clutch at his hand. “You did do something. You got the ambulance there in time.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, as if that wasn't worth anything.

“It made all the difference,” said John firmly. “The speed of medical assistance is one of the biggest factors affecting survival rates for heart attacks.”

Sherlock nodded, looking down at their hands, but John wasn't sure if he'd really taken that in. “You saved my life,” he added, his voice going rough as he realised just how true that was. “Again.”

Sherlock was silent for a few more minutes, during which John tried to swallow back the thought of just how close he'd come to dying.

“There are things I've never said to you,” Sherlock said eventually, and John knew immediately what he was talking about.

“There's never been any need,” he said. His mind flicked back to a day that he'd run through in his head more times than he cared to admit. As time had passed, and his understanding of the relationship between them grew, the light by which he viewed their wedding day had changed, until he could see so much more about it than just his initial reactions. “We both know where we stand with each other,” he added, echoing Sherlock's words from that day. “And why we got married. Why we've stayed married, come to that.”

Sherlock found a smile for him then. “John,” he said, filling the word with all the emotion that he'd never put into words, but which John had known about for years. John squeezed his hand again, but didn't say anything in reply. There was no need to.

 

****

 

The first night that John was back at home in their cottage, he woke up in the middle of the night to find Sherlock curled up around him, one hand slide under his pyjamas to rest over his heart, as if he couldn't sleep without the reassurance of its continuing steady beat under his palm. His head was tucked in close against John's shoulder, and John brought a hand up to stroke through his hair.

He thought about being the only person who Sherlock could stand to be around for more than a couple of hours, of being told that there was always something new to learn about him, of poppies and the smile Sherlock gave him when John handed him a cup of tea, and most of all, of thirty years of touches that always conveyed more than just a physical sensation. How anyone as intelligent as Sherlock could think for a second that John would need to actually be told how he felt when he had that much evidence in front of him was a complete mystery.

Sherlock shifted and opened his eyes. “John,” he said in a sleep-filled voice, then he frowned. “Your heart rate has changed,” he said.

“I woke up,” said John.

Sherlock gave him an assessing look before nodding and accepting that. He snuffled back into John's neck. “Go back to sleep,” he commanded.

“Yeah,” said John, trailing his fingers through Sherlock's hair one last time before letting his hand fall.

He was nearly back asleep before the thought occurred that there were things he'd never said to Sherlock either. He told himself that he didn't need to, that the evidence was written just as clearly on him as it was on Sherlock and that Sherlock was even more adept at putting together the clues.

 _Sometimes he misses things, though,_ he thought. If there was even the smallest chance that Sherlock didn't know how lucky John counted himself to have spent the last few decades as he had, John couldn't let that lie.

“Sherlock,” he said, and got a mostly-asleep 'hmm?' in response. He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I can't imagine that marrying anyone else would have been even half as good as this has been.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and John wondered if he was even awake enough to hear him, then he whispered into John's neck, “You are the only person I would ever have married.”

John felt a lump form in his throat at the simple way Sherlock said that, and thought that maybe there was a place for words, after all. As he drifted off to sleep, he found himself praying almost as fervently as he had when the heart attack had struck that the doctors would be right, and that he'd have many more years to spend with Sherlock.


End file.
